


daylight dreamers

by silverhedges



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, jim steals a bed so much as shares one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 15:18:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11489100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverhedges/pseuds/silverhedges
Summary: Sherlock comes home to find Jim in his bed. Why?





	daylight dreamers

The blankets are soft from overuse. They do not smell of laundry detergents, as the hotel rooms he usually stays in do. They smell of cigarette smoke and that particular scent that is unique to a person. The blankets are ruffled and untucked and lie over each other haphazardly. One of the beaten pillows has small burn-holes singed into it.

This is what Jim distantly notices as he drifts in and out of sleep. The bed is large, but he sleeps curled up, a habit taken from childhood to adulthood.

The curtains are broken so that they can’t be moved. This suits him fine, as they are firmly drawn and he would prefer the bright afternoon sunlight not get into his sleepy eyes.

He drifts into dreams. A red-sun day and a red-brick wall. A car. His chest bleeding. The screaming, the screaming, the screaming…

The bed creaks as a man sits down upon its edge. “I was under the impression that a criminal mastermind had better things to do than sneak into my bed,” a dry, acerbic voice interjects into Jim’s dreams.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Jim sighs. “We all want to be in your bed.”

“As much as this ‘all’ might want to, it’s you, Mr Moriarty, it is you who is actually doing so. You’re being quite the inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience?” Jim cracks open an eye, turning over to glare at his enemy with sleep-dust in his eyelashes. “We’ve gone through so much, and that’s all you have to say of me? That I’m a… inconvenience?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. He is unchanged, as ever. Does the man not age? Does he eat? Does he sleep? “I wish to sleep and you are in my way: ergo, you are an inconvenience.”

“I’m hurt, Sherly,” Jim whines.

“Be hurt, I don’t care.”

Jim huffs. “I was going to say: Come into my arms, Sherlock!” and he props himself up to spread his arms wide open theatrically, “just like that. But no more! None of my love for you.”

Sherlock rubs his eyes. “I never wanted your love,” he says tiredly.

“You have it anyway,” Jim replies and suddenly the conversation has taken a turn for the heavy.

A long pause ensues. Jim takes this moment to blink away his sleep-dust and really look at Sherlock. He won’t profess to have mind-powers. But he likes to think he would know if the man was happy or not. (He certainly knows when he’s on drugs again – has a watch set on him solely for that.) He looks of a reasonable weight, his hair is not too ragged and he might have seen sunlight this month or so.

“Why are you here, Jim?” the detective asks wearily and it’s the first time in a long time he has used that name.

Jim flops back down. The thoughts that cross his mind are ridiculous. He wouldn’t have thought them five years ago. Things like wanting to see Sherlock’s face, to press his face into the pillow and inhale his smell. He casts those love-infected thoughts aside and searches for the real reason.

“Time stops here. This is your man-cave and you can stay in here for days and days and never notice,” he begins with a jeering edge to his tone. But Sherlock doesn’t rise to the bait. Jim turns over and faces the wall. Away from those all-seeing eyes.

“Outside, the world is too fast. Too much happens. Not enough of any real importance. Time just ticks on and I don’t care and God, even I need a break sometimes, Sherlock. This world is just too much. It’s unbearable to live in. If I didn’t come here, I’d shoot myself and be done with it. I don’t know on how on earth you can stand all of this – but even you can’t. What a bore everything is. What a bore other people are.”

What he does not say is this: you are the reason I am here.

Jim is obsessive in his love. Is anyone really surprised at all about that?

There is a hand in his hair, slowly stroking him like a cat, ruffling it until the gel is gone. Jim stays silent and still. The hand is a message that they both understand. Sherlock cannot use his words like Jim can, but the message says this: I understand. And that is enough for both of them.


End file.
